A Bride for the Bodyguard: A Marriage of Convenience Instalove

1. Jack

JACK

“A bomb?”Rich Hunt stares wide-eyed at the smoking piles of debris around us before turning to look at me. “Seriously, Jack?”

I quirk a brow. “What?”

“I thought we agreed you were going in quiet on this one.”

The corner of my mouth tips up into a half-smirk. Rich might be my boss, but it feels good knowing I can still surprise him.

I shrug. “You said you wanted me to be thorough.”

“So, you blew up a building?”

“It was a controlled explosion.”

Rich glares at me. “Call it whatever you want. All I know is that the people in this town are going to kill us. I mean, look at this place.” He waves his hand around. “What am I supposed to tell the governor when he calls?”

“The truth.”

“Which is?”

“That I did my fucking job.”

Rich sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. I know he’s pissed, but he can’t argue with the results.

It’s a Saturday morning and I’ve just wrapped up my latest security gig in Maple Hollow, Vermont. The job? Playing bodyguard for a former gang leader turned tech mogul named Peter Crowley.

The job seemed pretty straightforward at first. But then last night, I found out that one of Crowley’s enemies had rigged his office in the town square with explosives.

The idea of disarming all those explosives without causing panic or inadvertently detonating them was out of question. I knew I had to act fast. So instead, I opted for a calculated risk - using a minor explosive myself. It wasn’t exactly by-the-book, but then again, when you’re dealing with snakes in your backyard, sometimes you have to get your hands dirty.

“I need to make a call,” Rich grumbles. “You gonna be around for a few minutes? I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.”

I give him a nod. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll just be over here doing some light dusting.”

Rich shakes his head and strides across the square towards the cluster of police cruisers parked haphazardly across the street.

The early morning sun glints off their shiny surfaces as they take witness statements and secure the scene. Despite it being an ungodly hour for most folks in Maple Hollow, a small crowd is already gathering around the perimeter. Curiosity is one thing this town isn’t short on.

While most of the square escaped unscathed, not all were as fortunate. Especially the businesses sharing a block with Crowley’s office. Several storefronts are now marred by debris and shockwave-induced damage.

As I look around, my eyes catch on a particularly heart-wrenching casualty of our operation. A destroyed dessert cart is tipped on its side near the curb, its cheerful paint blackened and peeling from the heat.

“Macaroons by Marlie” reads the charred sign hanging askew.

My chest tightens as I take in the sight.

This is the part they don’t train you for—the part where you face the ripples of destruction that extend beyond the immediate threat neutralized.

A few minutes later, Rich ambles back my way.

“What’d the governor say?” I ask.

Rich ignores my question. Instead, he replies, “I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

I figured as much. Rich isn’t one to micromanage. After a decade in the slammer and the subsequent rise from the ashes as the owner of his own security company, he knows when to step back. The fact that he came here at all tipped me off that something was up.

I shake my head. “Sorry, boss,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to leave for vacation tomorrow.”

In the high-stakes world of Hunt Security, we operate on a strict rotation—two months in the thick of it, one month to breathe. It’s a rhythm that keeps us sharp, keeps us sane.

Rich is usually good about honoring that system. He understands that even the toughest soldiers need time to recharge their batteries. The thought of him veering from this routine makes me uneasy.

“I know,” he says simply. “But I need someone I can trust. I’m willing to triple your usual fee.”

Despite myself, curiosity piques. “Go on.”

He sighs, running a hand through his silver hair. “Got a call from an old buddy down in Texas last night. There’s a DEA informant named Diego Alvarez hiding out in your hometown.”

My eyebrows shoot up at this revelation. “In Barton Beach?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

Barton Beach is smaller than most would expect for Texas. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone, and crime is usually limited to jaywalking or late library book returns. The thought that a DEA witness would be hiding out there seems odd.

But Rich nods his head in confirmation. “I’m sure.” He rubs his temples as if the thought of it all gives him a headache. “They’re looking to beef up Diego’s security detail. Apparently, they have a mole on their hands. They want to draft an outsider. And because I owe a debt to my buddy, I’m sending you.”

Great.

“Good news is that it won’t be as round-the-clock as the Crowley gig was,” Rich continues. “But expect some late nights. And you’ll have to keep a low profile.”

I snort. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

Rich grins at me, then drops the bombshell: “Get yourself a wife.”

What the fuck?

“A wife?” I echo. “For what?”

“For cover. Everyone knows you in the security world. The moment you step foot in Barton Beach, it’s like waving a red flag. Suspicions will be raised. But if you come back as a married man?” He pauses for effect before continuing. “They’ll just assume you’ve hung up your boots and decided to settle down.”

I groan internally at the absurdity of it all.

“Even if I agree to take this job, where the hell am I supposed to find a wife on such short notice?” I ask.

Rich chuckles heartily at my expense. “You’re a resourceful guy, Jack Barton. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Then he claps me on the shoulder. “I’ve got to head out. I’ll contact you in a day or two to sort out payment. Job starts on Monday.”

“I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“You will,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving me alone in the rubble, my mind reeling.

I rub the back of my neck, a wave of uncertainty washing over me.

I’ve never really been the domestic type. My life has been about action, unpredictability, and the thrill of the chase. I’ve dated, sure. But no woman has ever held my interest long enough for me to consider a future with her.

The women attracted to my lifestyle usually can’t handle the reality of it. And those who can don’t ignite that spark in me—the kind that makes you want to risk everything.

What I need is someone feisty. Someone who won’t put up with my bullshit but will let me take care of her when it counts. A woman who’s just as comfortable in a cocktail dress as she is in jeans and boots.

She needs to understand what I do—really get it—not just tolerate it because she loves me. She needs to accept that danger is part of the package, not something she can change or control.

I have no idea where I can find someone like that in the next twenty-four hours.

Which basically means I’m screwed.

“Excuse me!”

A woman’s voice rings out from behind me, and I spin around toward the sound.

That’s when I see the most gorgeous woman on the planet stomping toward me across the town square.

She looks to be about twenty-three, a fact that should make her less enticing. But instead, it only adds fuel to the fire building within me.

Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she’s wearing a hot pink sports bra with tight black leggings that cling to her like a second skin.

A primal possessiveness roars to life inside me as I continue to stare at her.

Everything about this woman is sexy as fuck. From her perky tits to her thick thighs to her pouty pink lips. Suddenly, I’m filled with the urge to claim all of it as mine.

“Um, hello?” the woman asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Well, good morning to you too, gorgeous,” I chuckle.

Now that she’s standing in front of me, I realize that she’s even prettier up close. I let my gaze drift over her openly, making sure she’s aware of the attention.

She rolls her eyes. “The police said you’re the person I should talk to about my cart.”

I furrow my brows in confusion. “What cart?”

“My dessert cart,” she snaps. “In case you haven’t noticed, you just blew it up!”

That’s when it clicks. I glance down at the wreckage behind me and back at her. “You’re Marlie?”

Her eyes widen as her mouth forms the perfect little ‘O’ of surprise. “H-how did you know my name?”

I can’t help but grin at her reaction. “Lucky guess.” I extend a hand towards her. “I’m Jack Barton.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you planning on explaining why you just blew up half the town square?”

It’s then that I notice the crowd starting to gather around us. The faces of business owners, horror-stricken and angry, mirror Marlie’s upset expression. I quickly guide her away from the growing audience.

“Look, I’m really sorry about your dessert cart,” I tell her. “But the explosion couldn’t be helped.”

Marlie throws her hands in the air. “Couldn’t be helped?” She repeats incredulously. “My dessert stand was all I had.” Her face crumples as she looks down at the wreckage. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

A pang of guilt hits me square in the chest. My mind races through options. Then, in a flash of audacity that surprises even me, I find the solution.

“Tell you what, sweetheart,” I reply. “I’ll help you rebuild. But what if I offered you something that could fix more than just your dessert stand?”

Marlie cocks her head, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “And what would that be?”

The air between us crackles. This is crazy—insane even—but right now, it feels like the most logical thing I’ve ever proposed.

Marlie huffs out a frustrated breath. “Look, if you have a point, you better get to it before I?—“

But I cut her off.

“Marry me.”